I’d outgrown it.

People die, buildings burn ang blogs aren’t like true love. They don’t live forever. It’s a sad realization. For people like me, a blog is the only forum to voice an opinion, tell a story and reflect on a favorite memory. But everything evolves. And this blog isn’t an exception.

But some evolutions need to be triggered by something drastic. So if there are any of you still out there, join me in a minute of silence as we watch a blog bleed to death and reinvent itself to better fit the fast-changing online world.

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Okay. This blog is officially an archive.

Now, hurry over to http://thedailysmallville.wordpress.com. See ya!

I figure I land squarely on No. 3.

I’ve been busy, sorry.

Whether it’s snapping pictures while wading in waist-deep floodwaters unaware that what I was seeing was an infinitesimal and insignificant part of the chokehold that Ondoy put on the country with its icy, watery grip; watching a ring icon during his beastly Baguio workouts; or taking time out to watch Smart Gilas reduce Powerade to shreds, something would crop up to take me away from blogging.

And here’s where I insert the requisite, self-pitying, blog-popular comment bait: Not that you noticed anyway.

But yeah, seriously. Busy. So busy that I forgot to greet everyone a Happy Rest-of-your-life day. So, Smallville, belated Happy Rest-of-your-life day. I’m reserving a separate post for that holiday.

Meanwhile, on to more important things.

Where were you on Sept. 26?

I was here:

A week later, the UP Cum Laude and I hitched a ride with sportswriters in a comfortably cramped van and road-tripped to Baguio City, just a few days before Typhoon Pepeng made landfall and made life hell for several of our countrymen.

Covered Pacman’s training for the fight against Miguel Cotto. We were sleep-deprived because the UP Cum Laude crammed for several nights pitching in her share of relief work for the Philippine Sportswriters Association, never mind that her name wasn’t really called.

She simply volunteered her old stuff, a huge chunk of her salary and her time repacking clothes she willingly parted with, shoes, canned goods and multivitamin pills funneled into weekly packets without so much fanfare. Yes, in a time when publicity normally accompanied help for those resettled into makeshift refugee camps minus not just the comforts of home but also the benefit of basic needs, it was heartwarming to watch someone pitch in her share in her own almost unnoticed world.

Heck, one of the major fund drives that predated the Inquirer’s own act of charity was partly born out of her suggestion.

Since she was a Pacman fan, I felt it was fitting that I rewarded her with an up-close-and-personal look at the Manny Pacquiao training camp in Baguio City.

Pepeng caught up with us while we were in Baguio. And thus, we brainstormed a plan to get out of the City of Pines before we would be totally trapped. Thankfully, Victory bus drivers knew how to negotiate the curvy Marcos highway—the only path out of Baguio unaffected by reported landslides and road erosions—despite having, at times, just five feet of visibility.

Treated the UP Cum Laude to a basketball game, too. Smart Gilas vs Powerade, where she rooted for the team that lost but was awed at the vast improvement of the team that won.

More blog posts to come! The complete album of photos is posted at Facebook. To non-contacts, message me and add me up. Thanks!

 It’s either we heal as a team or we’re gonna crumble. Inch by inch, play by play. Until we’re finished. We’re in hell right now, Tigers. Believe me. And, we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back into the light.

Today, you find out life’s this game of inches, so is basketball. Because in either game–life or basketball–the margin for error is so small. One half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it. One half second too slow, too fast and you don’t quite make it.

 The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second.

 Tigers fight for that inch. Tigers tear themselves and everyone else around them to pieces for that inch. Tigers claw for that inch. Because we know when you add up all those inches, that’s gonna make the fucking difference between winning and losing.

 So go out there and face those Eagles. And you make sure they remember, forever, the day they played the Tigers!

I won’t claim to have a full understanding of the woman mind,  but this  somehow sheds light on one of the greatest mysteries of the universe. According to the site this was nicked from, the letter supposedly won PC Magazine’s 2007 editors’ choice for best webmail-award-winning letter.

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your ‘Always’ maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I’d probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I’d certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts.

But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can’t tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there’s a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? I’m guessing you haven’t. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I’ll be transformed into what my husband likes to call ‘an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.’

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dlanod/802825499/

Isn’t the human body amazing? As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you’ve no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customer’s monthly visits from ‘Aunt Flo’. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior.

You surely realize it’s a tough time for most women.

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants… Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words:

‘Have a Happy Period.’

Are you **##*** kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness–actual smiling, laughing happiness, is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you’re some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything ‘happy’ about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don’t march down to the local Walgreen’s armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn’t it make more sense to say something that’s actually pertinent, like ‘Put down the Hammer’ or ‘Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong’.

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit.

And that’s a promise I will keep.. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons AUSTIN, TX

The new Transformers movie, the one they call Revenge of the Fallen? Loved it.

Just about every writer that I respect and every blog that I bother to read bashed the movie until it was reduced to a heap of scrap metal. While I normally nod in agreement at every argument these writers and bloggers make, I will make an exception this time around.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, Michael Bay’s latest grand-scale Hasbro commercial, is not just a good movie.

It’s a great movie. Four-stars-out-of-five great. Eight-in-a-scale-of-10 great.

And I don’t say that as a popcorn flick fan who gives the thumbs up at every movie that stretches endlessly and fills in the gaps between dialogues with exploding robots that transform into cars and airplanes. I say it as a serious movie buff who thinks Anthony Hopkins delivered a spectacularly disturbing performance as a flesh-munching psycho in Silence of the Lambs.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is Dirk Nowitzki great.

Wait, who?

Dirk Nowitzki. That 7-foot aberration of a basketball player who will one day be enshrined in the basketball Hall of Fame.

See, the biggest knock on Revenge of the Fallen is that its plot stinks. Critics say Michael Bay took an iconic classic and messed it up badly like a kid who got an entire Transformers set on Christmas Day and dressed all the robots up in Barbie clothes.

Bay flunked in the continuity aspect and drilled loopholes into a storyline that defied logic. Riiiiiight. Scoop loaders, excavators and bulldozers transform into robots that can also unite to form the badass Devastator and we worry about logic-defying storylines. Woohoo!

How can you knock a movie’s plot if it doesn’t have a plot in the first place?

How many times have you heard basketball purists among American journalists bashing Dirk Nowitzki’s defensive abilities? With those long arms, they say, he should be good for a couple of blocked shots or more. And at 7-foot tall? How come puny 6-footers like Steve Nash pop teardrops on him as often as cops accept bribes?

Drill this through your skulls: Dirk Nowitzki has no defense. You can’t criticize something that doesn’t exist.  Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen has no plot. Period.

And guess what these purists did in 2007? They made Nowitzki the NBA Most Valuable Player. Defense may be an integral part of a player’s package. It’s the one coaches preach about the most. But soft 7-footers who are afraid to bang bodies inside can be great basketball players, too.

Who’s to deny plot-less movies the same level of greatness?

Bay could’ve focused the Transformers movie on how a tearful Bumblebee copes up when bumbling-teenager-master-with-uber-hot-girlfriend decides to leave for college without him and renamed the damn thing Revenge of the Pollen and I wouldn’t care less.

It’s still a great movie.

Okay, so Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen left audiences with several dumbfounded moments that led to unanswered post-movie questions. My take: Have you ever seen Nowitzki shoot from the low blocks? He’s an agile 7-footer with a pretty good handle so why can’t he drop-step his way to the hoop? And why does he love lofting triples too much?

Get it? That’s what makes him great. A 7-footer with a rare feathery touch that can knock triples like a guard. What makes Revenge of the Fallen great? How many movies have been made about Optimus Prime? Megatron? Mudflap? Skids? Soundwave? Arcee? Ravage?

Right now, you can line Nowitzki up with other greats such as Kobe Bryant, LeBron James and Kevin Garnett. Players who have only one MVP trophy. Thus far. Just as you can line the new Transformers movie up beside every great movie filmed 2003 onwards in that they aren’t in the American Film Institute’s 100 Greatest Movies of All Time. Yet.

Okay, it doesn’t follow. Neither does the logic of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.

But the moment Starscream encouraged Megatron to retreat, and the Lord Decepticon backed off with “this is far from over,” you still had to whoop it up in giddy anticipation of Transformers 3, because of the leftover fun you had watching Revenge of the Fallen.

Dear reader,

After all the special moments we had shared, I fear you are now close to completely forgetting me. Allow me to reintroduce myself.

I am the guy you waited for every morning to share coffee with. I’m also the same insignificant ass who spent the night before thinking you’d keep on waiting, as long as I keep coming up with those witty one-liners to intro how your favorite team creamed an opponent.

You must remember me. You once suffered how I’d spend the night slobbering with saliva and beer foam while launching into some pompous speech of self-importance, unmindful of the possibility that I’d be late for our breakfast rendezvous. I was cocky. I thought you’d wait anyway. That all I had to do was mindlessly hammer fingers on laptop keyboards and you’d rush to the newsstand early in the morning to take me home for breakfast.

I do not know when I started noticing that all there was left of these mornings were a cup of cold coffee and an empty table.

Truth is, I didn’t care at first.

You’d come back. I was sure.

I was wrong.

And heck, I miss you.

I miss how a smile would light up your face every time you’d come across a subjective wisecrack that I’d somehow slipped past my editor’s scrutinizing eyes.

I love how you’d spread out the broadsheet, creating a rustling sound that blends with your hushed voice as you whisper: “I love the smell of newsprint in the morning.”

Whatever happened to breakfast, coffee, you and me?

They say you’d grown old and word-weary; that hearing the news from the TV while seated on your favorite cushy armchair is a much more comfy alternative to rifling through broadsheets beside breakfast tables.

But what if you miss out on something you want to go over again? Not everyone can TiVo everything on TV. Sure, you can go the way the young ones go and read all you want from the impersonal glare of your computers. But, c’mon now. What if you really liked what you read? How can you snip it out and save it for later, when you can unfold a moment in history preserved in some special compartment in your wallet?

Yeah, I know. It’s my fault, too.

You used to find me entertaining. I used to amaze you with the depth by which I tackled subjects, situations. You would take deep breaths as you absorbed the drama I presented before you. You’d even react; you’d nod in agreement or hammer out a letter in protest.

In return, what’d I do? I fed you PR-polished stories. I conducted interviews in thoughtless barbershop fasion, submitting reports on controversial issues in installment—presenting you only one side today so I’d have something default to work on tomorrow. Because I became plain lazy to look for other worthy stories to share with you the next day. I even fraternized with my subjects; justifying their pricey gifts and refusing to see the free buffet, subsidized trips and the occasional envelope for what they really are: Bribes.

What the hell was I thinking?

I sold my soul, hoping you’d buy it back for me.

You who wouldn’t even bother to meet me in the morning for coffee anymore.

I’ve no right to complain, really. Not when you do show up for—and comment on—the rare blog post; the tweets and Facebook updates. Heck, even for the quickie nightcap; the bite-sized rundown of events and happenings before you sleep the world off.

But see, mornings over coffee are when we enjoy each other the most.

And yes, even if you had completely lost faith in me, I know I can make it up to you because I still have lots of stories to tell. I told a decent one recently; about kids from a community built on a garbage dumpsite finding redemption in a field of dreams. I even took pictures! Yeah, I learned that skill just for you.

Listen, I cross-my-heart-promise you that I’ll be good again. Better, even. I’ll swim through the murky stream of issues to find the heart of stories. Look what I’ve got lined up for you: The dark, unexplored side of the varsity scene; a mother who—upon finding out her son had a disorder—dropped everything in her life to found a clinic for kids like hers; football players in ragged clothes playing bare-footed against Nike-suited opponents with golden sneakers and badass spikes.

Don’t listen to people who tell you to ditch me because I’m old school and all that. I know people older than me who embrace this reinvention of journalism they call “new media” or some fancy label like that. So it isn’t really a matter of philosophy as it is a matter of choice.

So pick me. Pick me because for every time that Lance Armstrong tweets updates on his comeback, I’ll tell you about a local rider winning a race on a borrowed bike. Pick me because for every watered down quick-read about Manny Pacquiao’s triumphs, I’ll tell you the story of a hundred boxers who try to follow his path out of extreme poverty, only to find their faces welded to the canvas one too many times.

I promise to work my butt off to make your mornings meaningful again, to avoid completely falling into irrelevance. In this era of microwaveable meals, I promise to slow-cook your breakfast to perfection. I know that in these tough economic times, your financial priorities list will find me somewhere after automatic toothpaste dispensers. But I promise to do everything I can to make every penny you spend for me worth it.

Just, please, please, please and oh-on-my-knees please.

Say you’ll still meet me in mornings for coffee.

Love,

The Journalist

Deconstructing Chip Tsao
By Francis T. J. Ochoa

SEE, here’s what you don’t get. Chip Tsao was simply writing a satire on the Spratly Islands controversy. Chip Tsao was trying to be funny. Chip Tsao, apparently, was simply unaware that Filipinos don’t normally find racist jokes funny especially if they are about old buildings that smell like cockroaches or questionable medical degrees.

When Chip Tsao wrote that the Filipino race amounts to nothing more than “$3,580-a-month cheap labor in Hong Kong” and that this “nation of servants” is good for nothing more than washing toilets and cleaning windows, he was merely cracking a punchline or two.

While he may have sounded like someone who earned his writing degree from the Malu Fernandez School of Journalism, Chip Tsao actually writes with a lot of sense. In fact, the only way to appreciate the heights of his genius is to read between the lines of his now notorious article.

Like: “I sternly warned [my domestic assistant] that if she wants her wages increased next year, she had better tell every one of her compatriots in Statue Square on Sunday that the entirety of the Spratly Islands belongs to China.

“Grimly, I told her that if war breaks out between the Philippines and China, I would have to end her employment and send her straight home, because I would not risk the crime of treason for sponsoring an enemy of the state by paying her to wash my toilet and clean my windows 16 hours a day. With that money, she would pay taxes to her government, and they would fund a navy to invade our motherland and deeply hurt my feelings.

“Some of my friends told me they have already declared a state of emergency at home. Their maids have been made to shout ‘China, Madam/Sir’ loudly whenever they hear the word ‘Spratly.’”

What he really means is China fears an outright war against the Philippines over the contested territory because for all its military might, China defines genocide as the act of air-spraying antiseptic over Guangdong Province, Hong Kong and other SARS-producing Chinese territories.

In an outright war, Tsao implies, China would have to set aside a  billion-dollar war chest for  weapons and machinery while all the Filipinos need to equip themselves with is an aerosol can filled with over-the-counter rubbing alcohol.

Or: “The government of the Philippines would certainly be wrong if they think we Chinese are prepared to swallow their insult and sit back and lose a Falkland Islands War in the Far East. They may have Barack Obama and the hawkish American military behind them, but we have a hostage in each of our homes in the Mid-Levels or higher.”

To some, it may mean that Chip Tsao is implying that if Chinese employers stopped paying their Filipino helpers their wages, they would force a huge void upon the Philippine economy.

Read the paragraph a little bit closer and you’ll realize he’s implying the opposite, actually. He’s actually sending a coded message to the Chinese government that it shouldn’t try to fool around with the Filipinos. Because if Filipinos stopped buying stale hopia, fake mobile phones and other  faulty electronic devices with a three-day shelf-life, the entire Chinese economy would collapse.

He’s warning about economic lights-out in China; the kind of which would make Earth Hour organizers oh-so-envious.

So enough with all the bigotry and hatred already. Anybody with enough units in LitCrit will know that Chip Tsao was making an effort to be funny. And having grown up as part of a race that lists censorship as an ordinary undertaking similar to phlegm-spitting, pollution-spreading, swearing and cutting in lines, that was the closest Chip Tsao could ever get to mocking his own government.

 
(Chip Tsao is a best-selling author and columnist. A former reporter for the BBC, his columns have also appeared in Apple Daily, Next Magazine and CUP Magazine, among others.)

(Francis T.J. Ochoa hasn’t written anything that has been read by anybody outside of his girlfriend, his mother and his high school classmate. He got his writing degree from the Malu Fernandez School of Journalism. He swears he didn’t see Chip Tsao there.)

Fittingly, for a band whose songs’ lyrics make it open season for armchair metaphor-hunters, the Eraserheads: The Final Set was one big irony crammed into a three-hour celebration.

Take the four members of the band. Individually, they may turn heads or draw here-and-then shrieks of recognition. Put them together—Ely Buendia, Raimund Marasigan, Buddy Zabala and surfer dude Marcus Adoro—and all they have to do is say jump and the SM Mall of Asia’s reclaimed foundations receive a severe test from a hundred thousand pairs of stomping feet.

And then the ultimate irony. The four, who had previously taken separate career paths after a sudden and suddenly messy divorce several years ago, took the stage one last time to say goodbye.

That was what the Final Set was, after all. A chance for the Eraserheads to give its loyal following a formal and final farewell.

 “Ito na talaga ang huling El Bimbo,” frontman Buendia yelled during what was supposed to be the final song in encore.

I had already written a review about the Final Set and I don’t know what else to say about it. Besides, high school pal Gerry had already blogged poignantly about it too.  And there’s even a website dedicated to both the reunion concert and the Final Set.

The best thing to do is to be thankful that this time, we had the chance to finally say goodbye to en era. The Eraserheads was a voice for a generation. That generation has grown up and must now learn to speak for itself.

Three hours and close to 30 songs after they got together one last time, the Eraserheads dispersed into four different roads again; four different career paths. And as the crowd filed out of the Mall of Asia open air concert grounds for good, there was an air of finality that flavored the evening sea breeze that swept the coastal venue.

Near a beverage booth, a fan sang lines from Fine Time: “I hope we can spend much more time together/A few hours is better than never/If we could only make it longer/A whole day would be fine.”

But see, this was it. This was the few hours that was better than never. And when the Heads, including honorary member Jazz Nicolas, gathered at centerstage for their version of the group hug, fans realized this was, in every sense of the word, the final set.

Goodbye, Eraserheads.

And while we’re at farewells, allow me to say goodbye to Francis Magalona. It’s sad how people had to say goodbye to two musical icons in the span of two days. I have no photo of the Master Rapper so I’ll leave you with one from Inquirer photographer Jim Guiao Punzalan.

It was pretty cool how the Eraserheads paid a simple but heartfelt tribute to FrancisM on a night that was supposed to be theirs all alone. The ‘Heads sang Superproxy and a portion of FrancisM’s Kaleidoscope World in the third set of the concert. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone told me that somehow, FrancisM was there singing along with them.

Too bad, though, the Bulls didn’t give their No. 1 fan a reason to stand from his seat and do some crazy fist-pumpin’. The Wizards horribly messed up Obama’s home team.

But apart from not being able to cheer himself hoarse, President Obama was just like any ordinary fan…

(pictures under the cutline)

From discussing the game program…

…to chatting up a young fan of the opposing squad…

…to actually having a swig of the everyman’s favorite alcoholic beverage–beer ftw!

Now, if we could only find a way to roll Ninoy Aquino and Vic Sotto into one person, I’d right away vote for that guy in 2010.

I remember you from when we were kids. Being from where I came from, you seemed so strange; you with the breath so cool, but with no trace of mint. Only the strong scent of  pine trees and clouds.

Strangely, now that we’re both grown-ups, you’ve become even more vague in your unfamiliarity.  Being with you again makes me wonder: Does the cold come from the clouds that embrace you or from your shoulders?

I remember you from when we were kids. Why couldn’t you have stayed that way?

* * *

Things to remember when planning a trip to Baguio City:

1. There’s always a better place to stay in. When you think you’ve found a transient house that you feel will serve its purpose, look again. Something better will always crop up.
2. When considering a place to stay in, look for the following: A kitchen with enough utensils, a working refrigerator, a toilet and bathroom with a working heater, pots and pans, decent beds with decent sheets, pillows and blankets and cable TV.
3. Bring light shirts, a couple of shorts, a couple of jeans and a sweater or jacket or two. Baguio City is not an excuse to try out the entire winter collection in your closet. There are days (even during the supposed cold season) when even a tank top will suffice.
4. Sharpen your senses. Baguio City is about taste, feel and scent.

* * *

The latest fad in Baguio–before, it used to be horseback riding, tossing coins at Mines View Park and boating at Burnham–is the now (in)famous ukay-ukay.

Tip: Stay away from buying whites. There is not enough lighting in these second-hand shops to discern if the white you’re buying is really white. Or if the spot you thought was a shadow of some sort is really some irreversible stain.

The strange thing about vendors in these shops is that when you ask them about the price of clothing items will give you two prices. Every. Single. Time. The UP Cum Laude and I spent a lot of time during our visit to Baguio in ukay-ukay shops and when we inquired about a piece of clothing that caught our eye, the same thing happens over and over again.

We: How much?
Them: P250, P200 last price.

What the friggin’ hell is the first price for?

Me: You know what the funny thing is?
UP Cum Laude: What?
Me: They actually stand there with that hopeful look in their faces waiting for us to make a choice! I mean, has anyone actually picked to pay the first price?
UP Cum Laude: (Dryly) Oh my god! A sign of wit! Now you know why I love you so much and why I’d do everything for you, including stripping at your command and hopping into bed with you. Because you can be so smart sometimes.
Me: Of course not. You love me and would do all that because I rock your world. I mean, Angelina Jolie did not fawn all over Brad Pitt because he could come up with the square root of 652,864 in a second.
UP Cum Laude: There you go again! Now I feel like making love to you right this very moment. You really know how to mesmerize me with your wit!
Me: I also know what sarcasm sounds like.

* * *

The public market in Baguio is a great place to lose yourself in. Everything Baguio can be found there. Hand-carved phallic-inspired woodcraft, strawberries that have morphed into every possible concoction, brooms of all colors and sizes, fresh fruits and vegetables and products shaped from locally mined silver.

Like in ukay-ukay shops, haggling is permissible to a certain extent. Commerce takes place in a blur in the market. Goods and cash change hands with a regularity that seems to defy the current financial meltdown. The whole marketplace seems to whirl about in a kaleidoscope of colors and a harmony of sounds. If Baguio were a world in itself, its marketplace is a world within a world.

* * *

At night, I often wonder, with the way you sell a piece of yourself to every transient like a port whore, how long will it be before you have no more to give?

How long before your bloom wilts into the dustbin of neglect and indifference?

How long before the children are no longer awed at being in your presence?

And how long before the spaces for silence dissolve into the chaos of every day irreversibly?

* * *

When thinking of when to visit Baguio, start with your purpose. If you simply want to recharge, late January or early February, just before local festivals turn things holiday crazy, would be ideal. Hole up in a rented home–as far away from the city as possible–and snuggle up with someone special until you’re done chasing the stress away.

If you’re into immersing yourself into the local culture, pack a few cameras and hit the road during the holidays or the local festivals. Find some place to stay within the city, where you’re a reinvigorating walk away from everywhere. Even your favorite mall!

I’m really not sure if Baguio should still be the country’s summer capital as without the cold, you miss a big part of your stay there. Nothing beats waking up in the middle of the night to an utter silence broken only by the rhythmic breathing of the person beside you.

* * *

Okay. So maybe some things remain unchanged.

Standing here, at the edge of your world, the clouds, the hills, they still collect at my feet.